In Cold Blood: A Brother’s Sworn Vengeance

To his horror, as he spoke he saw a tear slide down her cheek, forming a track through the powdery surface.

‘Mother!’ he barked, mortified. ‘Sort yourself out! The nick’s gotta be better than this shit-hole, I can tell you. Mother, honest. Get over yourself. I’ll be alright, okay?’

She nodded at him, brushing at her cheek irritably, before spinning round to the social worker. ‘How long, Sal? Before they find him a place? I don’t want him locked up with …’ She jabbed a finger in the direction of the hapless Joe, just so he could be in no doubt how she felt about him, ‘… with criminals and bloody animals!’

Sally smiled a sympathetic smile and put a hand on June’s arm, and Vinnie recognised that she was anxious that his mother didn’t really start kicking off, with old Saggy Tits the next focus of her anger. ‘Soon, love,’ she soothed. ‘They don’t keep kids in them places for long, I promise you.’

At that point Joe’s dad let out an angry laugh and finally spoke. ‘Criminals and animals?’ he spluttered. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? You’ve just described your son to a tee, love. They should lock him up and let him rot for what he’s done, the bleeding toe-rag!’

June glared at the man as though she was going to start on him next, but, glancing at Vinnie again – now cuffed – she seemed to think better of it. Instead she turned back to him, reaching out to pat his forearm. ‘Chin up then, mate, okay? You’ll be alright, son. Go on.’

There was nothing she could do to help him and he could see that by the set of her shoulders as the coppers frogmarched him out of the office.

Outside, a small crowd had formed. Word had clearly spread quickly and, while he’d been busy packing his bag, it seemed that anyone who’d been able to had gathered in the drive to watch the proceedings. A chorus of cheers, whistles and shouts of encouragement formed a spirited vocal accompaniment as Vinnie was led out to a waiting police car by the copper he was cuffed to, who ‘accidentally’ bumped Vinnie’s head on the roof as he shoved him into the back seat. Par for the course, Vinnie thought. There’d probably be more of it, too. He was more concerned about the haunted look on his mum’s face as he waved from the back window as they drove off. He couldn’t ever remember seeing her look so old. Maybe the old man was giving her some grief. He hoped not. It wasn’t like his mum to take shit off him. But he wasn’t there, was he? Had that changed things? Was she okay?

He also thought of Titch, suddenly. Shit. He didn’t even ask his mam how she was, poor little bleeder. I’ll have to write to her, he reminded himself, and find out what the score is. Mustn’t forget. Shit. Mustn’t forget.

The police station, they told him, would be a journey of about 15 miles, which he spent in silent contemplation of the passing fields, while the coppers talked quietly to each other. Vinnie wondered, for a weirdly exhilarating couple of seconds, whether to try the back door and make a jump for it. Wondered how he’d do it – how it would feel to experience his body thumping to the ground at speed, then rolling over and over, before halting the momentum, struggling upright again and sprinting towards the distant woods, the cops on his tail, like an Allied officer in a German prisoner-of-war camp. It was a compelling thought – fuck knew how long it would be before he felt fresh air again – but he wasn’t stupid enough to try it. He knew they’d round him up in seconds.

It wasn’t long before they reached the police station anyway, driving in via a back entrance halfway down the middle of a high street, where they were greeted by a desultory wave from a bloke in the car park and, when they entered the building, with a bored-looking nod from the desk sergeant. He was another fat bastard like Bastion, and had a ‘seen it all, done it all, you’re not such a hot shot’ look about him. And he confirmed it while he booked Vinnie in.

‘Little hard nut are we, eh?’ he asked once he’d read out the charge sheet. ‘Let’s see how long you last in the holding cell, then, shall we?’

One of the coppers who had brought him in looked at the sergeant in confusion. ‘Holding cell?’ he asked. ‘I thought he’d be given his own pad.’

‘Not just yet, Gary, we’re all out of superior rooms, I’m afraid.’

They all sniggered and, watching them, Vinnie scowled. Let the cunts laugh, he thought, pushing his chest out and flexing his fists again. He’d show them who’d have the last laugh.

But it wasn’t his only thought; there was another one. One that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. In fact, not so much a thought as a niggle of an emotion. One he didn’t like the feel of, so he fought to keep it where it lay.

Which was in the pit of his stomach. ‘Come on then, fellas,’ he said, ‘Show us me new pad, then. Only I’m a bit peckish, so I hope room service are still working.’

The other plod – the one he hadn’t been cuffed to – suddenly grabbed Vinnie by the arm. ‘Think you’re clever, do you? You’re nothing but a Yorkshire fucking tyke.’ He grinned nastily. ‘And guess what?’ he added, glancing again at the desk sergeant. ‘The lads in the holding cell have all had a few bevvies already and, trust me, they’re gonna love you, lad.’

Without further comment to either of the others, he marched Vinnie through a door, and down a corridor, yanking him to a halt in front of the caged bars of a holding cell, the desk sergeant not very far behind.

Vinnie straightened himself right up and tried to look unimpressed by the inhabitants, three of whom were standing in a ragged row, presumably to greet him. They were a black bloke in his twenties, sporting a giant Afro hair-do, a couple of old geezers, filthy-looking (not to mention stinking) who were obviously tramps, and a fourth man who looked to be in his forties. He was covered in tattoos and obviously out of his tree on something, because he was sprawled out on a bench, a pool of recent-looking sick glistening on the floor beside him and contributing to the stench.

The copper unlocked the door and pushed Vinnie inside. ‘Some entertainment, lads!’ he quipped. ‘You all be nice though, okay? He’s just a little kid with a big gob.’

Vinnie slipped his hands into his jeans pockets and fashioned a grin for his bemused audience. He was shitting himself and he needed a strategy. Which of these fellow inmates was he most in with a shot at captivating? He needed to get someone on side, and quickly. The man who’d thrown up was beginning to stir now and pushed himself upright and, by some instinct – it wasn’t rational, the man was stinking and covered in vomit – he stuck out a hand. ‘Alright, mush?’ he said. ‘I’m Vinnie.’

The man laughed, but not unpleasantly, and immediately shook the outstretched hand. ‘Now then, you little cunt, you’re a bit young to be in here, aren’t you? What the fuck did you do?’

The black guy laughed as well then and, having obviously risen at the sound of his approach – like dogs do when they hear the rattle of a tin – they all sat down again on the remaining benches that went around the three walls. Vinnie breathed a silent sigh of relief and joined in the laughter. ‘Fucking GBH or ABH or something. Fuck knows. Whatever it was, I bit the big fucker’s cheek off.’

The big bloke and the black man both laughed even louder, thumping each other on the arm. Maybe they were friends. The black man wiped his eyes then and said to Vinnie, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s livened us up a bit! I’m Maurice, man,’ he said, holding his own hand out. Vinnie shook it. ‘And this here’s Grant. How long you here for?’